A Hot Night On The Metro In Paris

It was the end of the month of May, a Wednesday, about 6:30, on the metro. It's extremely uncomfortable to take the metro then, because of the enormous crowds in all the cars--pressed against each other, sometimes in direct contact with people who are less than clean... I had no courses that afternoon and I had gone to Paris to shop in the big stores.

Coming back, I had an adventure which, even in my wildest imagination; which is sometimes quite lively and a little crazy; I could never have invented.

I got on at Chaussee d'Antin, direction Levallois; I was thinking of changing at Saint-Lazare. Terrible crowd, packed cars, you push as hard as possible in order to get into the car. Outside it was very hot, and it was hotter in the metro, so I was wearing a mini-skirt and a blouse, no underwear; as always; and a bra, very light, which didn't hide much of my chest.

I was carrying a paper bag in my hand with a sweater I had bought, and I had my handbag over my shoulder.

I climbed into a car and was pushed toward the back by all the people who wanted to get on behind me; when the door closed, we were all packed like herrings in a can. I thought of a song that I heard one time: "If We Could Unpack the Sardines."

My arms were trapped against the length of my body. I could not make the slightest movement, held fast in front, behind, to the right and to the left by other passengers. I was almost against the back door of the car; there was only one other person, behind my back, between this door and me.

In my unhappiness, half-asphyxiated, I found that I was in luck, because the people surrounding me seemed nice, as far as I could tell by appearances. By chance, after everyone pushed on, I was left facing, as squashed as I was, a woman about my age with a face sort of like mine. We exchanged smiles which seemed to say "We can only suffer in patience."

The metro moved about a thousand feet or so, when I sensed very clearly a hand behind me, placed on my buttocks. This sort of thing had never happened to me on the metro, although my friends have told me of having such "attacks," from which they vehemently recoiled, but I thought they were lying, because I had never been the subject of such "adventures," as they say.

But there it was. A hand, firmly pushing against my buttocks. You should know that it isn't my nature to protest against a thing like this--au contraire. By contracting the muscles of my behind, I tried to make understood to this hand, that I appreciated its audacity.

But whose hand was this? I knew there were three men behind me: one immediately behind and another at each side. Which of the three? I didn't dare turn around in fear that the man would take my movement for a rebuff.

After all, it wasn't important whose hand it was. I was delighted that this was happening; I forgot the extreme inconveniences of the metro at 6:30 in seeing, or feeling, the enormous advantages that came with it.

The hand caressed my behind, constantly. A well put together hand, moving with gentleness and firmness. I closed my eyes in order to better taste this caress, and I don't have to tell you that I began to get rather wet. The metro would be on time to the next station, so not too many people would get off. For me, in this mood, there was no further thought of changing at Saint Lazare, if the hand continued its work.

I was hoping the hand would dare to go under my skirt. I was pressing myself more and more backwards, in order to better make understood my accord. The hand moved more quickly and firmly on my behind.

The metro entered the next station. When it stopped, the hand grasped my buttocks, and rested on my behind, without caressing me.

Happily, at this hour, when 10 people get off, 10 more get on. The shuffle literally plastered the woman in front of me, against me.

--Excuse me, she said.

--That's OK, I said. There is nothing you can do.

I tried to tell her with my eyes that I did not find this disagreeable. Her pelvis seemed overly pushed against mine, with respect the rest of her body. I did not object to that. That day, the metro seemed to bring me everything at the same time.

As soon as the metro started up again, the hand went directly under my skirt; I imagined the man's joy in finding I had nothing on underneath; the hand didn't have to go down very far in order to pass under my skirt, of course.

Between my thighs, the man lost no time, burying his finger in my vagina; which was all wet. He moved it quickly, right away. I closed my eyes again, and opening them for a few seconds, I saw the face of the woman in front of me. She was observing me curiously, becoming aware that something was happening.

This finger in me and the excitement it gave me made me lose all prudence; I moved my pelvis forward and backward, almost instinctively, imperceptibly, but enough that the woman felt it. She pressed more strongly against me, and began a light, oscillating movement. A wonderful pleasure was born--enhanced by this special situation--I managed to slip my free hand up against the lower pelvis of the woman and, outside of her skirt, I felt for her clitoris to rub it; her eyes were smiling at me.

Fabulous. A finger in my sex from behind, and my finger caressing a woman in front of me, right in the middle of a crowd, who might discover everything, and cry out in scandal!

I was going to climax, I knew this, surrounded by dozens of blind people. If they could only have guessed...

At the next stop, the three of us continued as if nothing were happening.

I imagined the man and the woman were as excited as I was, and had also abandoned all prudence. But how could we fear being noticed in this crowd, if we kept a certain minimum of apparent calmness and impassiveness?

The woman's dress was a maxi with buttons in front; I easily unbuttoned the one above her sex--because I wanted to touch her skin--and passed my hand through the opening and placed it on her panties.

They didn't cling. I moved my finger between the cloth and her skin, and my finger reached her sex; a lot of hair, but I quickly found her clitoris and her very wet vagina. I wet my finger there and started to caress her seriously. Now, she closed her eyes.

I looked nonchalently around me, and saw people who seemed to be ignorant of everything that was happening, each with eyes fixed in front, lost in thought, no doubt.

Solitude in the crowd. Liberty to do everything without being seen; more easily perhaps than in open countryside where one never knows if, some distance away, behind a tree or a window, a man or an old woman is busy watching. (I am not against exhibitionism, but I like to choose my voyeurs.)

Three stations already. I decide to go to the last stop.

In me, this finger is moving, always; pleasure builds little by little within me; a new pleasure, unknown till this moment, coming as much from the finger of the man and the sex of the woman as from the place where we are.

The finger excites me terribly fast. My climax comes in three seconds, brusquely. I hold back a scream with great difficulty and bite my lips hard. I have rarely come so quickly. Normally, this pleasure grows in me gradually, gently, arriving at the paroxysm more slowly; but here, everything came in three or four seconds. Incredible!

I began to caress the woman in front of me furiously, and I sensed her about to come too, under my finger. A sexy one, for sure. But no more than me! Her eyes flutter, then totally close; I begin to take back my hand when she reopens her eyes, extremely gently, and stares at me:

--Again.

Incredible. This word she has just pronounced galvanizes me, and I begin to caress her more beautifully. I regret she cannot return this. I took the risk of making us noticed, because I never knew whose hand was in me, but I hoped it would continue to caress me.

But the man took back his hand when he felt, by the pressure of my buttocks, that I had climaxed. It was finished, I sensed.

Once more the metro stopped, at Malesherbes, nearly the last stop. The car would stay full. So much the better.

Why did the man stop caressing me? Was he satisfied? Did he only want to make me climax? I knew that sometimes men could come this way too, by simple intellectual excitation, and that after this, men lost, for a certain time, all their erotic ideas...

But I was wrong to make this of it. The man hadn't climaxed. Not yet. Then he did something that was difficult for me to believe, at first. I sensed between my thighs, no longer the man's hand, but his penis. I was sure that it was that, but for two seconds, I told myself that this was impossible. He would not possibly dare to do this! He could not have done this in such a crowd! Or else, he was completely crazy. But what a marvelous fool!

I continued to caress the woman, having decided to make her come at least as strongly as before.

I knew now it could only be the man directly behind me who could take his penis out of his pants and lift up my skirt and put it between my thighs. I tried to spread myself more to make the task easier.

The man clung strongly to the lower part of my skirt, and he pressed himself as straight as possible against me. He only let me move very lightly forward and backward, which gave me a chance to caress his penis, rubbing between my legs.

In front of me, the woman swooned, her eyes happily closed. Except for that, our neighbors would certainly have noticed her condition.

The metro entered Wagram station. Few people on the platform. Few people would get off here. Three people got off, two got on. Perfect, we were still deliciously crowded. The metro left.

Immediately, the man put his penis in my vagina. Marvelous! It was of normal length, but with an rather imposing diameter, it seemed to me, from what I could feel inside me. It seemed impossible to me, now, that the men on either side of me sensed nothing. I glanced to the right and the left behind me, and I saw the eyes of one man fixed on my buttocks. They were seeing everything. And they said nothing. Metro, Liberty is thy name!